Jake & Clara: Scandal, Politics, Hollywood, & Murder

Can one go upon hot coals, and his feet not be burned?

– Proverbs 6:38

Dedication

To Betty Holland—the best mother-in-law in whole wide world.

From the Author

This is a true story, but I have written it in the style of a novel. I have taken certain storytelling liberties, including the invention of some of the dialogue. Where the narrative strays from strict nonfiction, my intention has been to remain faithful to the characters and to the essential drift of events as they really happened.

Cast of Characters

CLARA SMITH HAMON: She was just seventeen when she met the handsome and charismatic man twenty years her senior. Jake Hamon swept young Clara off her feet and into his whirlwind of a life. He talked big and dreamed bigger. He promised Clara that she would be at his side for all the glory to come. And she was responsible for a substantial amount of Hamon’s success.

JAKE HAMON: With the nickname The Oil King of Oklahoma, Jake had the world on a string. Rich, powerful, and hard living, he seemed to be the embodiment of the new decade at its dawn. He used people. Sometimes abused them. And he tended to get away with it. He was poised to become the most powerful businessman in America.

GEORGIA HAMON: Georgia Hamon was Jake’s wife. She had been with him from the beginning, when they didn’t have two dimes to rub together. When prosperity came to her husband, their relationship turned into a marriage of convenience. This went on until Jake began to set his eyes on Washington. Georgia liked the idea of living in the nation’s capitol. She looked forward to spending time with her relative and friend, the new First Lady of the United States.

WARREN G. HARDING: The man who would become the President of the United States in 1921 loved whiskey and women. When he met Jake Hamon, he knew his new friend was wired like him, at least when it came to the ladies. Harding had mistresses of his own, so Hamon’s arrangement didn’t really bother him. But when his wife, Florence, spoke, Warren listened.

FLORENCE HARDING: The future First Lady of the United States was referred to by many as The Duchess, though never to her face. She was ambitious and controlling, which worked fine because someone had to look out for Warren Harding’s career. She was intrigued to meet Jake because, though he did not know it, Florence was related to Jake’s wife, Georgia. Georgia and Florence were cousins who spent much time together during their childhood.

FRANK KETCH: Jake’s long time business manager knew where all the money was and all the bodies were buried.

JOHN RINGLING: The owner of the famous circus bearing his name, Ringling became Jake Hamon’s partner in a railroad venture. Ringling would get an Oklahoma town named after him for his efforts. Jake would get more wealth and power. And it all began one day at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York when Clara accidentally spilled a drink on the famous circus man.

BUCK GARRETT: The longtime sheriff of Carter County, Oklahoma was said to be related to Pat Garrett, the man who killed Billy the Kid. He knew the story wasn’t true, but he seldom discouraged such talk. He enjoyed the legend. But he created a real name for himself when newspapers around the world covered his nationwide search for Clara.

BUD BALLEW: Sheriff Garrett’s chief deputy was a colourful and sometimes violent man. He prided himself on the fact that he had killed many men. He shot first and asked questions seldom. He joined his boss as they searched far and wide for Clara Hamon, becoming famous in his own right.

SAM BLAIR: A Chicago reporter with a hunger for the big scoop, Blair made a name for himself via the Clara Hamon story. His big break came one day when he found something extraordinary in her long lost luggage. Soon millions were reading every word he wrote.

W. P. WILD BILL MCLEAN: Already famous in Fort Worth, Texas, where he lived, McLean joined Clara’s defense team in Ardmore, Oklahoma. He made a national name for himself as one of the premier defense attorneys of the day.

JAMES JIMMIE MATHERS: Though he had only recently won election as Carter County Attorney—the office investigating and later prosecuting Clara—he put that aside to work on the defense team. Was it because he believed so much in her innocence, or that he simply had hated Jake Hamon for years?

JOHN GORMAN: A veteran Hollywood producer by the time 1920 rolled around, Gorman saw in the story about Clara something fit for the big screen. He decided to track her down. Not only did Gorman get to make a big movie, he got the girl, as well.

Chapter One

San Francisco — September 1921

It was a moment made for Hollywood, though it took place 375 miles to the north. The scene was the palatial lobby of the St. Francis Hotel on Union Square in the heart of San Francisco. A large crowd gathered there that afternoon. Some had been there for hours, moving in and out of the hotel and monitoring the situation.

Most of them were just plain old curiosity-seekers, but a few were there in official capacities. Some were cops. There were also at least a couple of Pinkerton operatives, including one Samuel D. Hammett (eventually to be known by his famous middle moniker, Dashiell). But he wasn’t there on agency business. He wanted to be a writer and was looking for a good yarn. Seeing as the still-a-bit-new decade was already beginning to be known as the age of celebrity, he thought the potential for a monumental convergence—two very famous people bumping into each other—that day at the St. Francis just had to contain a story.

Of course, Sam wasn’t the only scribe on the prowl on that day and in that place. The detective in him observed many men, and a couple of gals, who looked to be hunting a scoop as well.

The city was rife with rumors—had been since the night before. Word was that the St. Francis, which had mostly survived the big earthquake back in ’06, would be the stage for the appearance of not just one, but two, big names. One was a star—the guy was making a cool million bucks a year for being fat and funny. He was driving his $25,000-Pierce Arrow touring car up the coast from Los Angeles.

The other attraction that day was a lady, although some called her other less flattering things. She wasn’t a star, yet. But she wanted to be, and it looked like she just might make it. She was famous for a sensational story, complete with a high-profile murder trial, and was doing her best to leverage that notoriety into box office gold.

In fact, even without the famous comedian motoring toward San Francisco, the lady (though, again, I must belabor the point that some would simply not refer to her that way) was pretty big news herself. Had been for quite some time.

Then, of course, there was what happened the night before at The College Theater over on Market Street. Sure, it was a minor venue compared to the Majestic, or the Rox, but that prior night—Friday—it was the place to be in town.

Sam was there, too. Not officially, but just to see the show. Not just the movie, but the other show. The event. And he wasn’t disappointed, which was why he was willing to hang out with this crowd in the hotel lobby trying to figure a way to get close to the famous (yes, yes, some said, infamous) gal.

When he had returned home after the big show the night before, he ignored his eight-month-pregnant wife, Josephine, annoying her to no end. Wouldn’t even talk to her. Just pounded away on his infernal typewriter, that ugly (Josephine thought) Underwood number five model. He referred to page after page of notes made earlier that night. He wanted to write it all up while the scene was fresh in his mind.

It was while he was tormenting the Underwood and oblivious to everything else that he had the idea, well, more of an urge, to try to catch up with the famous lady the next day. Now, as he looked around the St. Francis lobby, it was apparent to him that his urge was part of a contagion.

Sam reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out several pages, the ones he’d written the night before. The words on paper introduced what was obviously an unfinished story. A movie premier had been scheduled—grand premier—right there in San Francisco. That itself was big news. The production had received publicity for many months.

Some cities refused to allow it to be shown. The censors were out in full force with their scissors and placards. Speaking of the latter, he was amused when they showed up on Market Street, long before the film’s star and producer appeared. Poor gal, he thought. On her big night, she’d have to see signs saying things like, No Filth in Our City!, Adultery and Murder are Not Only Sins, They Are Crimes!, Ban this Film!, and Clara, Go Home!

Clara. That was the lady’s name. Clara Smith Hamon. She was just about the most famous woman in America at that moment. Famous for killing a rich and powerful man and getting away with it. Famous for bankrolling her own movie about it, starring herself. Famous for marrying the film’s director while the picture was being filmed at Warner Brother’s Studio in Los Angeles.

As Sam waited in the lobby that Saturday afternoon, he rehearsed the scene from the night before in his mind. There was a big crowd then, too. The theater’s marquee bore the movie’s title in big letters: FATE, then, in smaller font: Clara Smith Hamon as Clara Smith Hamon ... also starring John Ince as Jake Hamon.

He remembered watching a big car make its way slowly through the massive crowd. Sam winced when he realized that he forgot to note what model it was. Details. People—mostly girls of all ages—swarmed the machine. Clara! The word was uttered, complete with exclamation point, hundreds of times.

There she is!

Then the car stopped in front of the movie house, right at the end of a long red carpet. An usher opened the car door, and Clara gracefully exited the vehicle, her husband, Mr. John Gorman, falling in behind her.

She was attractive, though not what Sam thought of as gorgeous.  Not quite a beauty, that’s what his notes said. Her brown hair was bobbed—that’s how they all wore it, he noted. She was not as tall as he had imagined. She looked self-assured, as if used to the attention, yet every move was cautious and slow.

Again came the swarm, almost engulfing her. Shouts. Flashbulbs. We love you, Clara! We believe in you, Clara! Clara and her husband moved quickly down the red carpet, and, in an instant, they disappeared into the theater, which wasn’t scheduled to open to the public for another fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, the crowd grew in size and impatience.

Sam recalled wondering where the couple would be sitting in the theater, when, all of a sudden, that thought was interrupted by the piercing sound of whistles—police whistles. Annoying things. Lawmen converged on the scene from every direction, forming their own ominous swarm. Sam recognized many of them from his Pinkerton work. Had to be at least two dozen cops.

There was a lot of shouting and a mild sense of panic. After a few moments, Sam figured out what was going on. The box office was told not to open, and the movie was being banned. Simple as that.

The moviegoers were not happy. But the police formed a line and made it pretty clear that the show was over—literally.

Sam lingered, though from a safe distance across Market Street. He wanted to try to catch Clara and John when they came out. But they never did. He figured they had ditched out a back exit.

Clara Smith Hamon was both humiliated and enraged. They had done it. The threats had been there since she announced that she was making a movie. That was back in March, right after the trial. Sure, there had been some problems getting workers to do some things, and production delays abounded. But the film was made—costing $200,000, which included $75,000 from her own bank account. And clearly customers wanted to see it—to see her—if the crowd on Market Street was any indication.

But she retreated to her suite at the St. Francis. Her husband tried to console her. Honey, tell you what, instead of the train back to Los Angeles, let’s take the ship. The Harvard leaves San Francisco Bay tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock from Pier 7, and I’ll book us a suite—first-class all the way. It’ll be relaxing. We don’t ever have to leave the room, he said, with a mischievous smile.

Oh, John, it’s so unfair. There’s nothing wrong with my movie, and people should be allowed to see what they want, she replied, ignoring his suggestion with a pout. Will they be doing this same thing in other places?

Dunno, doll. I just don’t know. But if they try, we’ll fight ’em. This is supposed to be a free country. That’s what they told us we were fighting for when Wilson sent our boys to war over there.

I love you, John. I’m sorry to be such a baby. I’m pathetic. Let’s do that cruise home tomorrow. It’ll be a hoot, she said, smiling through her tears. And then she hugged her husband and held on to him for a while.

John went over to the telephone, and when the operator came on, he said, Get me Douglas 2576, reading the number from the advertisement in the evening paper—the one that was outside the door of their suite when they returned from the theater. In a few moments, it was set. Suite reserved. Champagne for the room. Deluxe all the way. They’d be in Los Angeles Harbor by ten o’clock Sunday morning, refreshed and ready to take on the world.

Saturday afternoon Clara and John were on the lift heading down to the lobby, their ample assortment of luggage having been sent down earlier, safe in the custody of the bellman.

That’s interesting, what the bellman said, John remarked to Clara as the lift stopped at another floor without anyone getting on.

What? Clara asked. She’d been distracted all day and had slept lousy the night before.

Arbuckle. He said that they expect Fatty Arbuckle any time. He was checking in today.

Oh, oh, yes. I heard that.

Remember that party in Los Angeles? He seemed like a nice fella when he came over and talked to you for a while.

Yes, he was. Nothing like I pictured. And not nearly as big as he is in the movies. Think we’ll see him?

Dunno. Maybe.

What was his real name? Can’t call him Fatty, just wouldn’t be right. What was it ... Ronald ... no, Roscoe. That’s it!

Roscoe Fatty Arbuckle, that was his name. The guy was big in more than one way. At that moment, he was starring in six new motion pictures in theaters across America. Paramount was making money hand over fist with him. He was a funny guy. Pie in the face and fall down laughing funny. He also lived large. He carried a party with him wherever he went.

They loved him at the St. Francis, but they also knew that they were in for a few challenging days. And they’d have to do a lot of looking the other way. Some of Fatty’s parties were, well, known for booze and sex. Lots of both. Prohibition? What Prohibition? No such thing in the world of Fatty Arbuckle.

But he was a great tipper. And when he stayed at the hotel it was always great for business. Which brings us back to that moment made for Hollywood ...

As the title word of Clara’s forbidden movie, FATE,would have it, Fatty Arbuckle walked into the lobby of the St. Francis Hotel at the very same moment Clara Smith Hamon exited the lift. She saw him first. He was pretty hard to miss. Within just a moment, though, her presence in the lobby became gravitational as her name was whispered around and then shouted out.

He saw her and smiled. Clara! Honey, what the hell are you doing here? Somehow, the crowd parted, and the resulting void seemed to draw the two celebrities together. They embraced. Flashbulbs popped. Sam Hammett tried to elbow his way toward them, with marginal success. But he would not be denied.

Where ya headed, baby? the comedian asked Clara.

We’re going over to the wharf to board the Harvard back to Los Angeles. I’ve had enough of San Francisco.

Arbuckle had a puzzled look on his face. You don’t love this town? Why, it’s the greatest, a real gasser.

You, sir, can have it after what happened last night.

Fatty Arbuckle had been in his car all day and was never much for newspapers unless they had something in them about him. Sorry, kid, no clue what you mean.

The censors banned my movie; they sent the police and everything. It was horrible, she said as she started to weep. Arbuckle felt awkward and tried to make a joke, mostly to run interference for Clara as a couple of reporters positioned themselves to get a photograph of her in tears.

Hey, fellas, next one who pops a bulb gets a pie in the face! Laughter. He smiled and passed a few expensive cigars around. Then he leaned close to Clara and whispered, Let me drive you folks over to your ship. My car’s right out front.

She looked up and nodded, and in an instant they were out the door and climbing into the car. Arbuckle gave the bellman a hundred-dollar bill and told him, See that their luggage makes it to Pier seven on time. The hotel worker sprang into action. Sam managed to position himself close to them and followed them out onto the street where the funny man’s car was parked.

He decided to give it a shot. Mr. Arbuckle, I’m a Pinkerton. Happy to ride along with you, in case you need someone to keep the crowd at bay, so to speak.

Arbuckle took a moment, only a brief moment, to size up the guy with the nerve and made a snap decision. Sure. That’d be great. Hop in. This is Clara. Clara, this is ... ?

Sam. Sam Hammett, with the Pinkerton Agency.

Pleasure. Now let’s get moving. Clara smiled. Then she climbed in and sat in the front passenger seat, leaving a back seat for John.

As the crowd began to pour out of the hotel, Arbuckle pulled his Pierce-Arrow away from the hotel, taking Powell to Geary and then turning left toward Market Street.

Quite a machine, John said from the back seat. But he wasn’t heard. Arbuckle was clearly interested only in Clara.

So, baby, tell me more about what happened last night. Sounds just plain awful.

It was. I worked so hard on that movie. Put some of my own money behind it. If they stop it from being shown, I don’t know what I’ll do, she said, starting to tear up again.

Roscoe put his beefy hand on her knee and stroked it. Hey, doll, no worries, okay? I’ve got a lot of friends in this business, and I’ll see what I can do for you. How’s that?

That’s swell, just swell, she said, smiling through the tears.

They continued the conversation as Arbuckle steered the Pierce-Arrow left onto Market Street and neared Pier seven. As soon as I get back to Los Angeles, I’ll get on it. You can count on your friend Roscoe. How about we get together next week after I get back from Frisco? I’m here to relax. Have some friends coming by the St. Francis, and we’re going to have a good time—but after that ...

I’d like that, Clara said.

Clara and John thanked Arbuckle—she hugged him tightly—and waved as he began to drive off. Clara told her husband, He’s a swell guy. He’s going to help us. He has friends all over. Nobody says no to Fatty Arbuckle. For the first time since before the debacle the night before, she actually allowed herself to feel hopeful.

Poor Clara. She couldn’t catch a break. In fact, Roscoe Fatty Arbuckle wouldn’t follow through on his promise. Not because he forgot Clara, mind you, just that he had other things on his mind.

San Francisco turned out to be a nightmare for the big Hollywood star that weekend. And by the time he was supposed to get together with Clara back in Los Angeles to report on how he was working to fix her problem with the censors, he had problems of his own. Big problems. With the police and the public, at large. Fatty Arbuckle’s story became the first sordid Hollywood scandal of the decade—ever, for that matter.

Frankly, Clara Smith Hamon and her film never had a chance. Not once Arbuckle’s famous fat hit the fire.

It was indeed a matter of fate.

Chapter Two

Lawton, Oklahoma — 1910

One day, in the autumn of 1910, Jacob Jake Hamon walked into a store on the main thoroughfare of town in Lawton, Oklahoma. He was hunting a new pair of shoes. He went through a lot of shoes out in the fields. No, he wasn’t a farmer—he was an oil man, and Carter County was the home of some nearby oil fields, where Jake was beginning to make a fortune.

Miller’s Store, located near the center of town, was your average, run-of-the-mill enterprise, where local citizens could find most anything they needed, and usually at a fair price. They had a modest selection of shoes, but what they didn’t have they could get from a catalogue.

It was late afternoon, and business was slow. Old man Miller had gone home for dinner—he just lived a block or so away—and left a young lady in charge of the store. She was just seventeen and in her final year of high school. She was a very good worker, with a pleasing personality and a keen mind.

Her name was Clara—Clara Smith. The daughter of James and Margaret Smith. They owned a pool hall down the street. She stood just over five feet tall. Her brown hair had a reddish tint that was more pronounced in the sunlight. She had brown eyes that sparkled, and a cute, slightly round face. There were freckles, but just a few—remnants of her childhood. She exuded confidence and was good at the art of conversation.

She had been working for Miller for less than six months. But he would tell people that his girl Clara knew more about the merchandise in the store than he did. He was probably right. She was ambitious and gave all the energy she could muster to everything she did.

On this particular day, she was measuring a piece of cloth for a customer. She looked up from her work when Jake Hamon walked in and smiled his way. Be right with you, mister, she said. She recognized him. Everyone in town knew Jake Hamon, though not everyone liked the guy.

Oh, darlin’, take your time. I’m fine. You look busy, he said.

Almost done. She smiled his